


Interlude

by littlepluto



Category: Eerie Crests (Webcomic)
Genre: AU If You Squint, All Star by Smash Mouth, Campfires, Coffee Shops, Dallas Plays Guitar, Emo Erasure Is A Serious Issue, F/F, Fluff, Just A Whole Bunch Of Gay, M/M, Malek Is Brave, Marshmallows, Memes, Mentions Of Wonderwall, Poppy Has Tattoos, This Is... Super Gay, also i wrote this on the train to cardiff? nice, just. just a lot of memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10735485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlepluto/pseuds/littlepluto
Summary: The gang takes a break.





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELL!!!!!! i hope it's a good one!!!!!  
> as i type this i am using up all my 3g because the train wifi doesn't work & i have a two hour journey ahead,,,,,, worth it

 

“Did you _know_?”  
Wind-tossed, with flushed cheeks and hair like ruffled feathers, Malek slams his palms down flat on the counter, punctuating the last word. A few inches away, a stack of repurposed cardboard cupholders fall over. Poppy raises an eyebrow at him.

  
“Good morning to you, too,” she says. “Also, are you gonna order something? Or just stand here and lose me money?”  
“Triple shot americano, please,” he says, and then, remembering his indignance, sparks flying: “No, wait-- this is fucking serious! Poppy! Did you _know_?”

  
She hits the button on the espresso machine and turns back to lean over the counter, right up close to Malek’s flustered face.  
“Malek Solh.”

Her voice is deadly serious. He waits, breath held between taut teeth, eyes wide. Poppy claps him on the shoulder, turns away with a swirl of the muted green apron. “I don’t have a single clue what you’re talking about. That’s three-twenty five.”  
There’s a jangle as Malek digs in his pocket and empties a fistful of coins onto the counter.  
“Did you know,” he says for the third time, eyes helpless, pain written across his face, “that Dallas can play guitar?”

***

“I don’t understand what’s so wild about this,” Poppy says later, when she’s finished her shift and pocketed her check-- one step closer to the art course, one step closer to her dream-- and they’re heading out to the woods to meet the rest of the group. “Like, we’ve all seen him play before, kind of. At Phoebus’? You were there.”  
Malek’s head sags, shoulders hunched under his omnipresent army jacket; whether to protect him from the cold or his emotions it is unclear. “I knew,” he explains, frowning into the distance, “but I didn’t, like, know. And then last night I was at his house and he just--! What the fuck!” His voice is fervent, personally offended and deeply enamoured, and Poppy...  
Poppy glances at him, reaching to tug her hair up away from her neck, hair tie caught between her teeth. “So tell him,” she says, voice a little muffled.  
A beat of distilled silence.  
“ _What_.”

The moon is slowly cresting the blue misty peaks over the horizon, climbing into the deepening sky. They are nearly at the woods, now, path turning darker, less pale stone, beneath their feet.  
“Miscommunication is both agonising and infuriating,” Poppy says, matter of fact. “I hate it, you hate it, Dallas hates it, everyone hates it, so just tell him.”  
Alright, so it’s maybe a little difficult to disguise her impatience. Sue her.

Uncharacteristically, Malek goes silent, staring up at the sky, the stars sprinkled few and far between.  
“I do tell him,” he says, at last, and Poppy thinks-- well, yes. All those times Malek has slung his arm, familiar, around Dallas’ shoulders; all thise times he’s ruffled his hair or pulled him into a hug or nudged their arms together: all those times he’s said, with just an edge of too-much-truth, “ _I love you, Dally_."  
It’s not fair, Poppy thinks. Her best friends, endlessly circling each other like a solar system; cursed for the same gravitational force that keeps them orbiting one another to be the very thing that prevents them from ever getting close enough to touch.

“I don’t deserve him,” Malek doesn’t say, but she hears it, just as she hears the He could never want me in Dallas’ silent, closed up expressions, the shadows under his eyes, just as she watches hope spark in his eyes every time Malek grins at him or touched him absentmindedly. And every time she watches Dallas extinguish it himself before he can allow himself the luxury of wishing.

Wordlessly, Poppy takes Malek’s arm and pulls him close to her side. After a second, her ruffles her hair. His jacket smells of smoke and coffee. It is as familiar as the moon, suspended, wreathed in mist in the still, calm air.

***

When they get to the familiar clearing in the woods, hemmed in by trees and the fieelight dancing bright-soft autumn colours over the logs dragged over for seats, Dallas, Ben, Phoebus, Ari, and Sara are already there.  
The two of them are greeted with shouts and smiles, Ben brandishing a marshmallow on a stick like a sword, Dallas lifting a hand in welcome, a careful, crooked smile breaking over his face.  
“Hail and well met,” Malek declares, with finger guns, and immediately joins Dallas, ruffling his hair and squashing himself onto the same log, because he’s Malek; because if repressing your feelings was an Olympic sport, he would be a gold medalist.  
“‘Sup cryptids,” says Poppy, fond but expasperated, flashing a peace sign. She’s tired from the long shift at the coffee shop today, but the sight of her friends is enough to boost her spirits.  
“Ben, your marshmallow is on fire,” says Phoebus, and what a rag-tag bunch they make, Poppy thinks, laughter spilling out through the trees as Ben swears and flails and Phoebus winces and they smile, and smile, and smile.

***

When Poppy takes a seat on the log in between Dallas and Sara, she’s-- not surprised, maybe; but it’s unexpected when Sara looks over inquisitively. “Did you get a new tattoo?” she asks, in that voice of hers, all smooth and low in the dim light of the fire.  
Poppy grins at her. She feels full and brimming with power like this, in the woods under the stars, surrounded by friends.  
“Sure did,” she says, presenting her bicep for further inspection. Dallas looks round, too, disentangling himself from Malek’s intent hair-ruffling, and then everyone else is crowding in, too.  
Multiple voices coo over it, admiration bubbling bright, but Sara is the closest and the only one who traces the sweeping, curling lines with a light, careful touch. Her head is bowed so her hair hangs like a curtain, just brushing Poppy’s arm. Goosebumps prickle her skin, strange to happen so close to the fire. It must be getting colder, the night settling in like a cat curling comfortably into sleep.

  
“It’s cool,” says Sara, respect shining in her voice. “Really cool.”  
“I designed it myself,” Poppy tells her. The others have retreated back to their seats. She thinks Ari might be trying to balance marshmallows on Phoebus’ head without him noticing.  
Sara looks up and catches her eye, brows quirking. “That’s amazing,” she says.

  
It’s weird-- they’ve grown closer in recent years, of course; Poppy would call them friends comfortably and have it not be a lie. But there’s something-- there’s just something about this, sitting here with warmth caressing their skin, tinting everything deep, rich gold and soft… there’s just something a little different.  
“Thanks,” she says. The heat on her cheeks is just from the fire, crackling mere feet away. Of course.  
“I’m thinking of getting one, too,” says Sara. There’s a confiding tone to it, as if she hasn’t said this out loud before. Poppy brightens, leaning forward on her hands.  
“Really? Cool! You’d look badass with a tattoo. It’d really add to your whole… y’know, vibe.”  
Sara raises an eyebrow. “My vibe.”  
“Yeah.” Poppy grins. “Your aura of mystery.”  
Sara shakes her head, hair rippling. “Well,” she says, as if she doesn’t quite know how to respond, and her gaze flits away like a bird. “Well, I was wondering-- if I decided to get one, could I commission you to design it?”  
Poppy blinks.  
“You want me to design you a tattoo?”  
Sara nods. Poppy eyes her, suspicious. “I mean it,” Sara assures her, and…  
“Wow,” says Poppy, blankly, then remembers how to gather herself. “I mean-- of course! Wow. Yes. Are you sure?”

  
The smile curving Sara’s mouth is the brightest thing Poppy has ever seen.  
“Very,” she says.  
Poppy nods, and suddenly she is warm all over, like she’s lain out in the sun all day like a lizard and soaked up every last drop.  
“Wow,” she repeats. “Okay. What kind of thing were you thinking…?”

 

  
Later, the night has risen fully, sky turned velvet dark and the moon directly in the centre, full and haloed in silver.  
The fire burns low; someone brings out a stack of blankets to drape around each other like capes and they huddle, side by side by side, knees nudged together and content in their companionship.  
“Never have I ever… broken the law,” says Phoebus, throwing his arms wide and dislodging the neat stack of marshmallows balanced in his hair. They tumble into the embers, and Ari swears under their breath.  
“Okay, says the guy who _stole a dog_ ,” Poppy points out, snorting, and Phoebus folds his arms primly.  
“I have no regrets,” he says. “I maintain that it was the right thing to do.”

  
Ari pats him on the arm, leaning to stir the glowing pale ashes with Ben’s abandoned marshmallow stick. “Chaotic neutral.”  
“Chaotic _good_!” Phoebus protests, and then they’ve dissolved into a playful argument, grinning even as the names they call each other become more and more anatomically improbable and vulgar.

***

“Music!” says Ben, clambering to his feet. He produces a guitar from nowhere, or possibly from behind a log, and holds it aloft like the Phial of Galadriel. Next to Dallas, Malek audibly swallows. “We need music! Sara?”  
From across the fire, Sara raises her head, hair slipping over her shoulders like water. “Don’t ask me,” she says.  
“I only know one song,” Phoebus begins, and Ari smacks him in the shoulder before he can finish.  
“No,” they say, very firmly. There is a brief moment in which the group collectively decide not to ask.  
“I know someone who can play for us,” Poppy says slyly, leaning over to poke Dallas in the side. He squirms away, flushing.

  
“C’mon, I suck,” he says.  
“Ayy,” says Ben.  
“Ayy,” says Ari.  
“Ayy,” says Phoebus, slightly more apologetically.  
Malek tips over, laughing, and even Sara cracks a grin,  
“Fuck all of you,” says Dallas, which really only makes the situation worse.

  
Dallas’ freckles are even more prominent, somehow, with the fire glancing over his cheeks. Malek is being about as subtle as a train careening over a mountainside, gazing adoringly as Dallas clears his throat and plucks a shaky chord.  
“Really,” he says. “I am not good at this.”  
“As long as it’s not _Wonderwall_ ," says Poppy, “you’re good.”  
There’s a chorus of boos, which is to be expected. “ _Wonderwall_ is a classic,” says Phoebus, wounded.  
“ _Wonderwall_ is the worst thing in the universe,” counters Malek.  
“Your opinion doesn’t count, you’re emo,” says Ben dismissively, and bulls onwards over the top of Malek’s protestations, “Okay, excluding Solh, a vote: is _Wonderwall_ iconic, yay or nay?”  
Phoebus, Ben, and Ari raise their hands for yay.  
“Three against three, a tie,” says Poppy. "Interesting."  
“This is a hate crime,” Malek announces. “I can’t believe you’re excluding me just because I listen to real music.”  
“Emo bands are not real music!” says Ben, unrepentant.  
“It does kind of depend on your definition of emo, and also your definition of emo,” Phoebus says, thoughtful, and Ben throws his hands up dramatically.  
“Et tu, Phoebus?” he says. “Really?”  
“I’m just saying!”

  
“A just democracy would count Malek,” Poppy says. “Stop emo erasure two-K-seventeen, you prep.”  
“Justice? In this economy?” says Ari, and then the vote is forgotten as Dallas, starts to strum, quietly at first then building in volume until every eye is on him, silhouetted by fire, softened in the glow.

Malek’s eyes widen in recognition a mere fraction of a second before the verse begins. Horror dawns on his face, warring with betrayal, with disgust.  
Dallas stares into the fire, opens his mouth, and sings.

“ _She was looking kinda dumb with her finger and her thumb / in the shape of an L on her forehead…_ ”

Absolute chaos reigns.

The night draws in close and warm around them all; they sit belting out the song together, arm in arm with no sense of tune or even melody, the guitar chords drowned out by their voices. Marshmallows are scattered like fallen stars around Phoebus’ feet; Sara’s snapback is askew and she’s laughing; at some point Ari has gained a tinsel crown.  
Perhaps bouyed by the song and the electric emotion running high through the air, Malek leans in, almost unnoticed. He presses his lips to Dallas’ cheek. Dallas’ fingers slip of the guitar strings but by this point Ben has dragged Phoebus up to dance some kind of jive around the campfire and it doesn’t matter.  
Amidst the noise and laughter, Malek makes a choice. He holds Dallas’ gaze, meaningful, outspoken: after all, miscommunication is both agonising and infuriating. Malek raises his arm slightly, waiting for the okay. He slides it around Dallas’ shoulder and he leaves it there; Dallas still staring at him in disbelief but disbelief that is crumbling, breaking down inexorably; the careful erosion of mountains and continents plays out in his eyes, deep brown. No one notices-- or if they do they keep quiet about it-- when Malek takes a deep breath, a question in his eyes: when they slip off together through the trees.

Across the fire, Poppy smiles slightly, anticipation thrumming in her stomach. Giving them the privacy they need to-- please, please-- talk it out, she looks away from their figures disappearing together; she turns back to the fire, clapping her hands in time with the rhythm of Ben’s clumsy feet. With a sigh, Sara appears at her side, a warm, silent apparition. Except she’s very, very real.  
“Hey,” says Poppy.  
Sara nods. “Hey.”  
Poppy looks up at her for a moment longer, and decides-- what the hell.“Can I try your hat on?”  
Sara smiles.

Just at the edge of the circle of light, Malek and Dallas stand, heads bent together in whispered conversation, their dark forms blending in with the trees. Perhaps there’s something otherworldly in the air tonight. Perhaps some brilliant deity is on their side, because, with a deep breath, Malek reaches over. He touches Dallas’ hand with his own.  
Their fingers brush, entangle, intertwine. Slowly, disbelievingly, the fragile web of hope spun like shining golden threads, poised on the edge of fraying into oblivion or holding fast, strengthened.  
  
Dallas says, “Is this-- I don’t--,”  
Malek says. “I mean it. Dally. I mean it. I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. Believe me.”

The stars blink sleepily above the blueish softened mountains. Mist rolls like a billowing tide down the craggy peaks, the jagged, moss-cluttered rock.  
Constellations peak out from behind clouds, fading into view like distant strains of music, beautfiul, barely there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [twitter](www.twitter.com/caprisunfun)!


End file.
